


sought, wrought, and shaped to purpose

by Rikku



Category: The Kingkiller Chronicle - Patrick Rothfuss
Genre: Gen, WAY TOO MUCH TIME, do you have any idea how much time i spent researching this thing, oh thank the gods i finally finished this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 17:13:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rikku/pseuds/Rikku
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Bast met Kvothe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time: 

It was a full-moon night, summery sweet. A fair number of the town’s inhabitants were in the inn, in order to properly enjoy it. A young man entered, slender and dark with a smile like a promise. 

The most beautiful woman in the taproom was by the bar in conversation with the barkeeper, pointedly ignoring the gentleman she was sitting beside. Bast chose to take this as a hopeful sign, so he approached her, all casual grace and charming grin. When she turned to face him the grin dropped away, replaced mainly by awe.

He bowed, deep and smooth. “My lady,” he said respectfully. “You are by far the most beautiful thing I’ve seen today.”

“Only today?” she said, wry, “my standards must be slipping,” and she turned back to the red-haired man sitting next to her, who’d been eyeing the exchange from behind a fixed expression of something that was trying very hard not to be jealousy and was nowhere near succeeding. Not such a hopeful sign then. They were lovers plainly, even if they were bickering ones. Bast sighed.

She flicked a smile at him, though, half-hidden by her curtain of dark hair, and that smile was like a sip of brandy on a cold day, like remembering a song you thought you’d forgotten. It spread warmth all through his chest.

“I’d be careful of that one,” the red-haired man said, turning to eye Bast with an expression much less friendly; his smile was perfectly polite, but his eyes were green and sharp as blades of grass. Bast bristled. Now he came to think of it – yes, the man had been here last night too, sitting gloomily by the bar, and quite possibly he _had_ taken note of the sheer number of beautiful girls Bast had flirted with then, if he’d had nothing better to do. Bast hadn’t had much attention to spare for him, though.

And didn’t now, because while this beautiful girl was clearly spoken for, there was another sitting at a table alone, and her eyes had caught on him and held. Bast gave her a rakish grin and went to her, though he paused to place a friendly hand on the red-haired man’s shoulder, first. “If you meddle with my business again, manling,” Bast said earnestly, quiet enough not to be overheard, “I’ll snap your wrists like kindling. I could make you scream until your throat was bloody from it. Understand?”

Bast was pleased and a little surprised when realisation dawned quickly on the man’s face and he nodded and turned away, his mouth twisting like he’d tasted something bitter. His hand twitched as though to grasp at the iron knife sitting nearby, but he stilled the motion before anything came of it. Huh. Rare to find someone clever enough to know aught of faen things, rarer still someone who knew enough to shy from confrontation when it sought him. It was a shame he was an absolute tit.

Bast shrugged, offered another grin to the beautiful dark-haired girl for politeness’s sake, and went to sit by the lady who’d been eyeing him. “You are as lovely as the setting sun,” he told her, grinning, and she raised an eyebrow.

“Lovelier than the girl you were talking too?” she said. She had cascades of brown-blonde curls, and her face was round and soft and did not at all suit the irritated frown that was marring it.

“More beautiful by far,” he told her, and it was a lie until she smiled, and then it was true. 

They talked. She smiled a lot. Bast had gotten to the point of thinking hopeful thoughts about the rooms upstairs when he heard the music. Just a few sad chords, but it cut straight through the taproom, straight through his heart. And then the song started in earnest, and he was caught, enraptured, bespelled. It was as sweet as the touch of sunlight on your lips. It was as sad as a falling bird. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever encountered, and Bast was a man who made a point of seeking out beautiful things. 

When the song slowed and came to a stop Bast blinked a little, dazed. He must’ve fallen silent, because the girl’s smile was fading again, which was a great shame, but he couldn’t help it. That … that had been …

His eyes searched the room, not quite sure what they were looking for, and they landed on the man with the sharp green eyes, still sitting where he’d been before but with no beautiful dark-haired lover beside him. Not just bickering, then, a fight. And it must’ve been a fiercely tragic fight for him to make music like _that_ , like his heart was breaking. Bast hadn’t noticed his hands before, but they were remarkable, slender and clever, one still hovering lightly over the bowl of the lute he was cradling, the other resting gently on its neck.

More than anything in the world Bast wanted to hear him play again.

“She’s not even there any more, what are you staring at,” his beautiful girl said, a little sulkily, and Bast flashed her a grin and then stood, tugging at her hand to pull her to her feet as well.

“Play something we can _dance_ to,” he called to the musician, and the musician blinked at him like he was coming out of a haze, and then looked surprised.

Then he said, “Alright then,” and he did.

Bast moved like a dancer always, regardless of whether there was music good enough to dance to, regardless of whether there was music at all. But this! This was music that made his blood sing and his feet move and his heart as light as air, this was foot-pounding music, house-shaking music, the kind of music every fiddler longs to play and every dancer longs to hear. Bast whirled his girl into a clearish space and danced free and wild, and within half a minute a dozen other people had joined them, two dozen, clapping their hands and moving in time, losing themselves to laughter and delight. The inn was full of noise and warmth and dancing, and music. Always the music. The musician’s hands danced over his lute’s strings quick as thinking. Quicker. It was everything Bast loved about human music, the roughness and warmth of it.

Then the song changed, turned complex and shifting and subtle but still fast, still sweet. It made Bast think of dancing the Berentaltha, wild and manic with the stars heavy on your shoulders. Of any of the dances back home, for that matter. Familiar twilight above, and sweet-smelling grass; it was beautiful, that music, it sang to the soul of him. _Home home home_ , it said, and _safe_.

The girl was prettier than ever with a blush in her cheeks and her careful curls coming undone, and Bast told her so, and she blushed. He was struck with inspiration. “Do you like flowers?” he said, spinning her out and then back into the warmth of his arms, and she blinked a bit but nodded, laughed. He beamed and made her the seeming of some, an easy bit of glamourie, and for a second he couldn’t imagine why she turned pale as death.

That was some remarkable music to make him forget for a moment where he was. Forget that he was dallying in the human world, where spinning flowers from air wasn’t quite a common thing.

“You,” she said, stammering a little, “what _are_ you—” 

“Um,” Bast said. Awkwardness wasn’t something he was used to feeling. “I won’t hurt you, if that’s any help,” he offered.

“Let go of me, then,” she said, pale, and he did. She took several rapid steps away, and then eyed him nervously and gave a choppy little bow. He laughed at that. At least she found this situation as awkward as he did. She left quickly – not unusually quickly, nothing to draw attention to her or to him, for which he was grateful. Just quickly. He watched her go regretfully, and then he went and sat by the musician.

“You did that on purpose,” he said, accusingly.

The musician raised an eyebrow in his direction, his face as startled and innocent as anyone could wish for, his eyes bright. “What on earth makes you say that,” he murmured. His fingers still moved clever and easy on the strings, even without his full attention on the music.

“You did that on purpose!” Bast hissed, leaning closer, poking at his chest. “You played faen music to put me at ease so I’d slip up, what kind of bastard does that.”

The musician went still and tense, and it took Bast a second to realise that he was making a deliberate effort not to flinch away, to keep on appearing calm and perfectly in control. But he was unsettled, plainly, just by Bast talking to him, touching him, just by Bast being there. It made him want to laugh. “Give me a moment,” the musician said, and he finished the song, strummed out the last notes to appreciative silence. There was a general cheer when he was done. “Right,” the musician said, and he put his lute lovingly in its case and then turned to the bar. “It’s probably wise to have this conversation sober,” but he said it regretfully.

Bast snorted. “You’re not in any danger from me,” he said. Ludicrous idea. Like he could ever hurt anyone who played like _that_. “Why don’t you like me?”

The musician gave him a slow stare. “You threatened to break my wrists,” he pointed out. “ _Like kindling_ , I believe was your words.”

Bast waved that aside impatiently. “I meant, why did you drive the girls off? First your lady, then mine. Warning them away. What do you think I’d do, eat their hearts?”

The musician laughed. From the slightly unsteady sound of that laugh, he wasn’t in the least danger of having this conversation sober, after all. Probably been drinking to cushion the pain of whatever had happened with his lady love. Bast had to credit him, though, from the way he spoke you’d never tell. “Well,” he said. “I hate to sound needlessly theatrical, but something along those lines, yes. You’re either a puck or a faun, I’m thinking. Either way, isn’t that what you do?”

“A—” Bast spluttered indignantly. “A what? And here was me thinking from that song that you knew the least little thing about the fae. A _puck_!” He glared. “Honestly. You couldn’t be more idiotic if you tried.”

The musician had gone still and wary again, watching him. “Your pardon,” he said politely. “Of your kind I don’t know anything personally, only scraps of second-hand stories. Might I ask what you are, then?”

Bast huffed. The musician gave him a crooked, self-mocking little smile, a rueful sort of _can’t be helped_ , and somehow that appeased him. “I’m Bast,” he said.

The musician raised his eyebrows. “Not what I was asking,” he said, “but thank you all the same. I’m Kvothe.” He paused. “You may’ve heard of me.” 

Bast looked at him blankly, then shook his head. 

Kvothe grinned. He had a good grin, Bast liked it. “That’s probably for the best,” he said. “I should apologise for my conduct, Bast. You’re only the second of the folk I’ve had the honour I’ve meeting, and today—” He stopped. The grin vanished as suddenly as it had come. “Today – wasn’t the best of days,” he finished, then scowled, maybe at how clumsy that had come out.

Bast thought of how that first song, sweet and sad, singing heartbreak. He thought of Kvothe somehow turning bright string-sound into _home home home_ , weaving beautiful song out of nothing, a whole other sort of glamour. It was the most magnificent thing he’d ever heard, and Kvothe thought he had to apologise. “Kvothe,” he said, tasting the name on his tongue. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Kvothe shook his head. “I’ve had more than enough—”

Bast raised a hand to forestall him. “More than enough is still less than too much!” he said. “Barkeep,” he added, as an afterthought. He rattled coins down on the counter, enjoying the clink of them. _Coins_ , honestly. Humans were so sweet sometimes. Like puppies.

The barkeep came over to them, favouring Kvothe with a wide, grateful smile. “Right good bit of playing there,” he said, sounding almost honoured. Good, Bast thought proudly, before remembering that Kvothe wasn’t even slightly his to be proud of. “I was a little startled when you started out, I’ll admit, but it’s good to see some cheer in this place. Anything you two gents want, it’s on the house.”

“Any preferences?” Bast asked his new friend, tilting his head.

Kvothe paused. “I really shouldn’t,” he said, then sighed out a breath and met the barkeep’s eyes. “Do you have strawberry wine?” It came out almost a plea.

The barkeep shook his head, looking apologetic. “We have raspberry,” he offered. “Peach. Elderberry, plum, rhubarb.”

Bast bounced. “Elderberry,” he said eagerly. “Elderberry, does it taste like ancient trees?” That’s what the name sounded like, tall trunks standing strong, fans of berries bobbing amongst the leaves.

The barkeep blinked and looked at Kvothe, who chuckled low in his throat. “Elderberry it is then,” he said, and the barkeep nodded and fetched them a bottle. A whole _bottle_.

Things got a little hazy after that.

They ended up on the roof, somehow. It wasn’t that Bast minded, exactly, it was just a little puzzling how they’d _got_ there; when he remembered the night later he couldn’t quite remember what had led them to it, just Kvothe’s arm steadying him, his voice – like theatre, like thunder – warning, “Watch out for the clay ones,” and then the two of them sitting on the roof, feet swinging, moon up above and bottle between them.

He liked that about the memory. Just thinking of things and then _doing_ them wasn’t something that happened outside of the Fae, was always something he found himself absentmindedly missing on the one- or two-day trips he took here.

“Kvothe,” he said, at some point, because it was an important thing to say, “your music is the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard.” And then, because Kvothe just laughed, “It is! And, and your hands, they’re. And your laugh.” He shoved at Kvothe with one shoulder, harder than he’d meant to, making them both tip to the side a little. Which would’ve been a lot less alarming if they hadn’t been sitting on a roof. “Your laugh is _sweet candy_ ,” Bast told him earnestly, quite close to his face.

Kvothe pushed him away. “You are profoundly drunk,” he said fondly. “I always wondered if faen people got drunk like humans do,” he added, apparently to no one in particular. “Useful piece of information to have, I suppose.”

“It’s like a stomach full of soup,” Bast agreed, not paying attention. “Warms you all up inside. Like your girl’s smile. No.” He frowned and waved a hand, trying to get the point across. “Your laugh’s like, like seeing a bird, and it flicks its wings and you can see all the flight it could do …” He trailed off. “Kvothe, are you alright?”

“Here’s a helpful lesson on humans,” Kvothe said flatly, scrubbing at his face. “Next time you’re getting someone maudlin drunk to make them forget fighting with their – with someone, possibly don’t mention that person. Just a suggestion.”

Bast snorted at that. “Oh come now,” he said. “I’m a hundred years older than you if I’m a day, manling, I’ve kissed more women than you’ve even seen. I don’t need lessons from you.”

“You’re right,” Kvothe agreed. “You’re adept at making women flee from the room already. What could I possibly add?”

Bast scowled. Then brightened, turning to his friend eagerly. “Kvothe,” he said. “Kvothe Kvothe Kvothe.”

Kvothe winced. “I know it’s just a calling name—”

“Kvothe, you’re human, you probably understand how human girls work.” He tugged at his sleeve imploringly, staring at him. “ _Teach me_.”

Kvothe just looked at him for a moment, then burst out laughing, great rolling laughs of pure mirth. Bast scowled, but he couldn’t really be annoyed, not for long. He hadn’t been lying about that laugh, or exaggerating. It was like sunlight, like the purr of a cat more felt than heard.

“I don’t really think you need any help,” Kvothe said gently, at last. “Least of all from me. I caught you off guard, that’s all. I was watching you yesterday. Don’t worry, you’re the perfect image of a dashing young man.”

Bast relaxed. “Oh good,” he said, relieved. “See, I thought so, but—” He stopped. “You were watching me? Why?”

“Ah,” Kvothe said, and he scratched at the back of his neck, looking awkward. “Actually I was trying to figure out the best way to kill you, if you ended up being a danger to anyone.”

Bast considered this. “If your plan was to lure me to a drunken, height-induced death,” he said seriously. “It is working.”

“I’m clever like that,” Kvothe told him.

They drank some more.

“To women,” Bast said, later, raising the bottle. It was much lighter than it had been before.

Kvothe winced. “To music,” he suggested. “To the ever-moving moon.”

They drank.


	2. Chapter 2

The second:

Years passed, as they tend to do. Bast flitted between worlds, dancing and laughing and loving and losing, hating and having, all with the intensity and brevity of emotion that none but fae can match. He didn’t think about his musician much, until he started hearing stories. He’d never had much patience for manling tales, outside of the ones that had beautiful women, but these ones did have beautiful women, and much more besides; there was adventure and cleverness and riddles and heartbreak, and the tales spread like wildfire. Tales of Kvothe Sixstring, Kvothe Sweet-singer. Kvothe with hair like fire and eyes of shifting green. Kvothe deadly as he was foolish. Felurian’s Kvothe.

That last one set his teeth on edge all unwilling. “What ails you?” asked the Twilight King as he and the rest of the court of the Telwyth Mael sprawled out on soft-smelling couches and ate pale fleshy grapes. The Twilight King’s eyes were like grapes themselves, solid-sour purple, and just looking at them made Bast want to spit the gritty taste from his mouth. Nowhere near so sweet as elderberries.

He bared his teeth instead. “He’s mine,” he said, stubborn like a petulant child. But it was true. Kvothe had made him music, had drank his wine. Kvothe was his if he was anyone’s.

He found himself regretting it bare months later – or years, it may’ve been years; hard to keep track when the twilight never ended. He thought it was months, but Kvothe looked so much older than he had, surely this couldn’t be the man they told stories about. So much more tired.

So much more frightening.

Bast summoned him to the doors of stone by calling his name, low and soft, by dancing and making magics and other things you’d never understand; but tugging at his name, that was the main thing. Bast knew firsthand how that felt, like an itch you couldn’t scratch, difficult to resist – and sure enough there was his beautiful musician at long last, once-bright eyes flat and dull as bottle-glass, a sword held steady in his hand.

“Hello!” Bast said, bright.

Kvothe looked up and saw him there, sitting on the edge of the waystone with his legs swinging into space. “My puck boy,” he said, smiling a little. “I should’ve known you were behind this.” There was something sharp in his eyes, though, something cunning and clever; he looked at the waystone, laid atop the other two, and chanted as though to himself, “ _Like a drawstone even in our sleep ..._ ”

Bast slid down from his perch, uncomfortable. Had his musician gone mad? He’d gone _mad_ , hadn’t he. Humans really needed to stop doing that. “Are you well?” he said gently, then paused. He had absolutely no idea how to help in this kind of situation. “... Want to go dancing?” That had been his original plan. Drag his human into Fae, maybe, show him its wonders and show off his wonders, too, make a claim to him; or just share a meal perhaps, share time. Now he was less certain.

Kvothe lifted his sword, steady and proud, and met Bast’s eyes. “This,” he said, jerking his chin at the doorway. “This is the way into Fae?”

“Well yeah. When the moon is ...” Bast trailed off. He was glad to have his back to the solid stone, it felt safe, Kvothe was worrying him. “Why?” he said, guarded. “Have you been seeking it?”

“I seek revenge,” Kvothe said, and his voice was rolling thunder, there was no trace of mirth in him now as there had been that other night, just months ago, just an eternity. “As is my right.”

Bast shifted. “Against me?” he queried, anxious, and Kvothe blinked, looked at him.

“What? No. I know next to nothing of you. I seek revenge against – wait, do you truly know nothing of what’s been going on here? Of who’s been _stolen_ —”

Bast looked at him blankly.

Kvothe sighed. “Of course you don’t,” he said. “And if you did it wouldn’t mean anything to you. Look at you all wit and whimsy and cleverness and _nothing else_ , haven’t you learned that if you live life like that long enough there’ll be nothing underneath—” He cut off, abruptly. (It was almost like he’d been directing his words at someone else, Bast thought; but then, he would never confess to understand to humans. They were even worse when they were mad. Almost like fae but not quite, there was still that bridge between them. Bridges and edges and doorways almost-open and nothing made sense.) He sighed, then continued, resigned: “You couldn’t understand if you _tried_. I almost wish you could.”

Bast bristled, stalked over to him. “So tell me!” he said, and Kvothe just looked at him, shifted his hand on his sword. Bast swallowed against the stink of iron.

“I really don’t have time,” Kvothe said flatly. “Thank you for showing me the path,” he added, and then he was walking forward with his cloak fluttering in the wind and his back straight and his heart broken, Bast could _tell_ , there was a look to people who were all empty and aching inside. People who would do anything. 

_Anpauen_. Kvothe could cause all manner of havoc in this state.

“ _Teach_ me,” Bast called after him, entreating, but Kvothe had already stepped through the door and into Fae, leaving Bast hovering, undecided, in the human world; the twilight faded into true dark and still he had not thought of what to do, and by then it was too late. Kvothe was long gone when Bast stepped through after him, not even the chemicals-and-lute-strings smell of him remaining in the air. He was gone.

He was gone, and when he got himself into trouble – as of course he did, his kind always did, he was a tall tree that drew lightning towards it – Bast wasn’t there to help him, he wasn’t _there_ -


	3. Chapter 3

And third time pays for all.

Bast was wrists-deep in humanguts when Kvothe walked into the clearing. Bast paused. Kvothe paused. They stared at each other.

“Hello again,” Kvothe said.

“I certainly haven’t been following you!” Bast said, guiltily.

Kvothe said nothing for a moment, just stood there looking pinched and pale. There was something different about him now; he had none of that fierce bright spark he’d had their first meeting, or the terrible fury he’d had after. It was almost like he had nothing at all.

“... Ah,” Kvothe said, a weary exhalation of breath and realisation. “Would this be why I find myself so curiously untroubled by bandits in this particular journey?”

Bast glanced at the corpses scattered around him. This lot had been much easier to kill than the last one! Bandits were never exactly a challenge, though, fortunately. “They were going to attack you, Reshi,” he said earnest, and Kvothe frowned a bit, at the name or the sentiment Bast couldn’t tell.

“Maybe I wanted them to,” he said.

Bast’s heart skipped a beat. “Well that’s fool’s talk!” he said, indignant, and Kvothe said nothing. “Kvothe! I’ve been following you, what are you doing out in the middle of nowhere all wandering and broken, why aren’t you _doing_ things—”

“Kote,” Kvothe said.

“What?”

“My name is _Kote_ ,” Kvothe said, insistently, and there was the thrum of truth in his words. Bast stared at him aghast. What had he done? The idiot brilliant fool, what had he _done_.

“But,” he said, small. “You – you’re _Kvothe_ , you can’t have just ...” His eyes fell to the corpse in front of him, and he grabbed the ring he’d managed to cobble together, leapt to his feet to present the bloody scrap to Kvothe eagerly. “I made this for you!”

Kvothe stared at it.

“It’s a ring of leather,” Bast said, uncertainly, when Kvothe continued not to react. “It means—”

“I know what it means,” Kvothe said. “Unconditional service. And you ... made it out of a man you killed for me.”

“Well. Yes.” It had seemed poetic.

“Charred body of God,” Kvothe said, and he barked out a laugh, harsh and forlorn. “You don’t do a thing halfway, do you?”

Bast stood uncertain, fighting the urge to say _Well of course_ because he’d thought Kvothe understood his kind better than that. When fae love they love fully.

Then steeled himself. This was his _Reshi_ , his sweet musician, his terror and his joy, and they were going to be friends if he killed himself in the trying. “Where are you going?” he said, stubborn.

Kvothe sighed. Went on walking, looking empty, just some dull everyday human, hair red as bricks, red as dead leaves, red as anything except flames and it was _wrong_ , it was so wrong it hurt like a punch to the gut, like choking on iron. “Newarre. There’s a building for sale there. I can make a decent inn out of it, I think.”

“An _inn_?” Bast said blankly, walking beside him. “Why?”

Kvothe shrugged.

“Will you sell elderberry wine?” Bast asked, sneaking a sideways glance at him, and Kvothe smiled a little like he remembered.

“I plan to sell a little of everything,” Kvothe said, and for a second, just for a second there was life in him again, the tiniest of sparks but it was there – “Anything anyone could want, whether they want to drink or to eat or just to rest in a safe haven.” His hands, which had been gesturing emphatically, dropped back down to his sides. “Well,” he murmured. “That’s the plan, at least. My plans have a tendency of not turning out ... anywhere near how I expected them to.”

“Well I could help,” Bast said, “you wouldn’t get into trouble if I _helped_.”

Kvothe laughed again. Tired and harsh and more than half fake, but it was a laugh all the same. “And you’d know aught of running a bar, fae thing?”

Bast smiled at him prickly and proud, like a prince should; stretched out his hands to either side and grinned at him and said, “Teach me.”

And Kvothe said nothing for a moment, and then he said, “Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ' “I’m saying you belong to me.” Bast’s face was deadly serious. “Down to the marrow of your bones. I drew you here to serve my purpose. You have eaten at my table, and I have saved your life.” He pointed at Chronicler’s naked chest. “Three ways I own you. That makes you wholly mine. An instrument of my desire. You will do as I say.” '


End file.
